


A song you know's begun

by bladeangel



Series: Witchertober 2020 [5]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Exhaustion, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Time Loop, Witchertober (The Witcher), because Jaskier keeps coming back, because if i have to know all this than so should you, but like not permanently, day 5 fire, gratuitos references to witcher potions and potion ingredients, mentions of blaviken, no beta we die like stregobore should have, repeating the same arguments over and over again, witchertober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27214447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bladeangel/pseuds/bladeangel
Summary: Jaskier opens his eyes to the fire blazing cheerily between them, he doesn’t bother clutching at his throat in a panic or shooting to his feet.Or, a moment in the life of Jaskier. Trapped in a timeloop.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witchertober 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1955281
Comments: 2
Kudos: 121





	A song you know's begun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for witchertober day 5 - fire.  
> My orignal idea for this prompt was Jaskier setting fire to a Nilfgaardian outpost while inside to let Geralt and Ciri escape. But this idea grabbed when I sat to write and demanded to be written. This scene takes place during a time loop, where Jaskier and Geralt keep dying during a fake contract. Jaskier is the only one who remembers and is slowly losing it trying to stop it. I may someday write the whole time loop fic. but for now this is all there is.

Jaskier opens his eyes to the fire blazing cheerily between them.

Jaskier doesn’t bother clutching at his throat in a panic or shooting to his feet, instead, grabbing one of the bottles of vodka Geralt had left at the ready, his breaths barely stuttering where seconds ago his lungs struggled desperately to pull any air.

His Witcher is grinding hellebore petals and drowner brains into a mash. Rough calloused hands steady and unhesitant but face set in a scowl of concentration to disguise his distaste for the bloated, rotting-vinegar stink of days old drowner parts. The ghoul bite on his neck is still bandaged, the little flecks of blood staining the wrapping meant that they weren’t more than two days out from the last contract.

“Might want to stock up on Kiss instead.”, Jaskier says idly, watching as his traveling companion starts preparing the ingredients for Maribor Forest, the electric tinge of magic hovering in the air as Geralt measures the herbs in practiced motions.

“Hmm?”

Geralt grunts, golden eyes flicking up for a second, landing on the bottle of spirit in his hands, before he dismisses the bard, who sighs.

“Or at least some Blizzard or White Raffords, even some Necrophage oil wouldn’t be amiss.”

“Hmm.”

“Come now, even a few extra doses of Swallow or some Wolf would be of better use to you, my dear.”, Jaskier continues, inhaling to start another list of alternate decoctions.

“It’s a spectre contract.” Geralt bites out, clearly annoyed by his companion’s persistence.

“Spectre oil, increased endurance, Yrden, silver” familiar words, spoken in a cadence that meant a long-memorised fact.

“Ah. But how can you know it’s truly a spectre?”, Jaskier counters, taking another exhausted swig.

Here Geralt looks at him over the flickering flames, face drawn into an expression of annoyance, looking at him as if he were far more drunk then less than ten minutes of determined pulls could explain.

“It’s a nightwraith contract, description was clear.”

“That it was. A bit too clear you might say.”

Geralt grunts into the silence of the forest, tired.

“Speak plainly, Jaskier.”

“Well, isn’t it a bit too convenient? The perfect contract, at the perfect time.”

Silence.

“The pay too! So much more generous than one would expect for a contract such as this, wouldn’t you say?”

A grunt. Like talking to one of Vizima’s city walls, this man.

“The description is a bit too spot as well isn’t it? The miller was much more composed and detailed then you would expect from a hapless victim.”

“He wasn’t lying.”, Geralt grinds out, gaze intent on where he was decanting the current potion into a small vial.

“You don’t need to lie to someone in order to mislead them.” Jaskier counters, his near constant expression of exhausted apathy cracking in favour of irritation and anger.

“What would he get out of lying?” The Witcher responds, pestle grinding down far harder than necessary.

“He could be leading us into a trap!”, Jaskier retorts, all lethargy gone as he fell into the rhythm of the argument.

“You have enemies Geralt! Many enemies! Who would delight in the chance to get the drop on you!”.

Grunting again.

“Come now Geralt! Think about it! Afterall we’re quite close to Bl-“

A slam, as the pestle hits the mortar with force, golden eyes flashing, soft lips pulled back and baring sharp teeth.

“Enough! Go to sleep, bard. You’re drunk.”

Jaskier snaps his mouth shut, plump lips pulling down into a tired scowl. Jaskier levers himself up, right knee buckling under a blow that hasn’t yet happened, as he stumbles to the bedrolls, grabbing a few more bottles of vodka on the way over. He takes a few more swigs from the open bottle, as he settles the others beside him, resigning himself to a night of drinking and numbness.

There was nothing to be done, Jaskier knew, but the situation still stung. No matter how hard he tried, he could never seem to make Geralt understand what he was saying, and no matter how hard he tried he could never seem to stop himself from falling into the exact same arguments again and again and again.

Jaskier tosses the now empty bottle to the side, already reaching for the next. The buzz of alcohol is a welcome distraction from the flashes of gold, silver and red, red, red. So much red pouring and dripping and gushing out of a thousand wounds, a thousand mistakes, a thousand deaths, over and over again.

Eventually Jaskier drinks himself to sleep, the crackling of the flames lulling him into a light rest.

* * *

This time Jaskier doesn’t bother opening his eyes, a long lute-calloused hand reaches out and snags the bottle of vodka. His lips wrapping around the rim, as he swallows a third of the bottle in one go.

The fire dances between them spitting at the odd rock.

From the other side come the clicks and clacks of potion making, the wet thud of mashed ingredients. The smell of rot and herbs and vinegar fills the space between them. The tinge of magic in the air.

Jaskier takes another drink, a shaking hand clutching at his heart, at the stab wound that no-longer existed.

“Might want to stock up on Kiss instead.”, he says, without bothering to open his eyes, the flickering of the flames long having etched itself in his mind’s eye.

“Hmm?”.

Jaskier sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Projecting my exhaustion with repetitive arguments that never seem to go anywhere on Jaskier? It's more likely than you think!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Stillness and The Silence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27217975) by [stonecoldsilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecoldsilly/pseuds/stonecoldsilly)




End file.
